Mending Horses (35 page)

“Did you not say the constable showed you her body?” asked McCarthy.

The new story tottered. “You misheard me, Sean, I'm sure,” Hugh said. “ 'Twas her clothes only. The constable said he couldn't show me the body.” Aye, that was it. If he told it a few more times, he would believe it himself. A few more after that, and it really would be true.

McCarthy squinted against the smoke. “Aye,” he said finally. “That must'a been it. Begging your pardon, Hugh.”

“They must'a snatched her,” Hugh said. “Snatched her and put a lad's clothes on her and left her own behind.”

“Meaning no disrespect, Hugh, but are you that sure?” O'Neill asked. “We were sitting a bit of a ways off and—”

“Do I not know me own daughter?” His throat tightened, the wood smoke blurring his vision. “Do I not know that voice that's the very echo of her mam's?” It was her voice that had convinced him it wasn't yet another of his fancies. When he'd seen her again later in the show, leaping from one pony's back to another as wild and fierce as any boy, he'd barely recognized anything of his old Nuala. He mightn't have known her at all, if he hadn't been looking for her, she made that convincing of a boy.

“It's unnatural,” he said. “It's against God, dressing her like a lad and forcing her to play at trick-riding.” And yet, hadn't it been a thrill to watch her, fearless and graceful as she was? A lass who could do such things would be a fine comfort and support to her old da. Son and daughter both, she could be. It was a hard thing to say which glowed brighter in his imagination: Nuala's talents or the coins the crowd had tossed at her feet. He'd already framed a picture in his mind of himself and Nuala roaming the country together, putting their troubles behind them with her songs. In time, perhaps, he'd even buy her a pony so she could do her trick-riding, too. Aye, she'd like that, wouldn't she?

“A lass belongs with her da,” Hugh said. “Not with a pack of godless show folk.”

“Well, there's only one thing for it, then, isn't there?” O'Neill said. “Who's for helping Hugh get her back?”

The chorus of
aye
s that rose around the fire brought Hugh to tears.

“Can I ride Lorenzo, Mr. Lamb?” Billy stared longingly up at the camel's droopy face.

“All right. But be careful. He's a fractious beast,” the menagerie keeper warned.

“Aye, well, Billy is, too,” Daniel said. “So they ought to be getting along famously.” He wrapped his scarf tighter around his throat. The afternoon's rain had ended, thank God, but the night air was thick with damp.

Mr. Lamb tapped the camel's front legs with his stick to make Lorenzo kneel so Billy could scramble up into the saddle. “Oh, my. It's not a bit like sitting a horse, is it?” she proclaimed as the camel clambered back to his feet.

“Just don't fall off, eh?” Daniel said. “We'll never be finding you in the dark.”

A string of lanterns lit the caravan. Two more bobbed up and down along the length of the wagon train: Mr. Stocking on one side and Mr. Chamberlain on the other, making sure horses were harnessed, cages bolted, and every person and beast accounted for. The peddler patted Daniel's shoulder as he stopped next to the ponies' wagon. “All set, son?” he asked.

“Aye.” Daniel stifled a yawn. “It still feels uneasy, this night traveling. Like we're a pack of thieves running off ahead of the sheriff.”

Mr. Stocking laughed. “Son, if you knew how many times we've had to do exactly that. I, uh—” He lowered his lantern and peered down the road. “Uh-oh, could be trouble coming.” He pointed to a group of lights rapidly approaching the wagon train. “What d'you think, Bert?”

“Looks like more than somebody wanting his money back for a bad show,” Mr. Lamb replied. “I'll pass the word along.” He disappeared into the darkness, and Daniel heard his voice as he walked along the caravan, alerting teamsters and performers.

“Billy, stay on that camel,” Mr. Stocking called. “You can be our lookout.” He leaned closer to Daniel. “If there's real trouble, at least she'll be out'a reach,” he whispered.

“Aye, if she'll stay put,” Daniel replied. He unhitched Ivy from where he'd tethered her to the wagon and swung onto her back. He trotted her to the front of the line, where Mr. Chamberlain stood with a pistol hidden behind his coattails.

Daniel made out the shapes of men holding pickaxes and shovels and digging bars: the railroad workers. Their faces seemed ghoulish in the lanterns' glow, the November air steaming their breath ominously. His stomach did more tumbles than he'd ever performed in the show, and the reins grew slick in his sweaty hands. He leaned down from Ivy's back to ask Mr. Chamberlain, “What d'you s'pose they want?”

“Money. Liquor. Let's hope it's not women.” Mr. Chamberlain held up his lantern. “Good evening, gentlemen,” his voice boomed cheerfully, as if he were welcoming them for a social call. “What brings you here tonight?”

A handsome, muscular man with a dimpled chin and wavy hair spoke first. “I'm wanting to talk to that peddler fella.”

Mr. Stocking joined Daniel and Mr. Chamberlain. “And what can I do for you fine gentlemen?” he said briskly, as though he didn't notice the angry looks on the faces before him.

“We come for what you stole from me.”

“Stole?” The little man drew himself up straight and tugged at his jacket. “I may be a peddler, sir, but I'm no thief. If you think I cheated you, I'll be happy to give you satisfaction. Just tell me the particulars.”

“Don't be pretending you don't know,” the railroad man sneered. “Weren't you the one as stole me little girl?”

The peddler's false smile collapsed.

“Sweet Jesus,” Daniel said softly, his insides twisting as he saw
the lass's dimpled chin and round cheeks in the man's flushed and angry face. Part of him wanted to flee the caravan, find his secret place, and wrap it around himself until the confrontation was over. But another part of him wanted to be clever and brave and strong enough to keep Mr. Stocking and Billy safe from Fogarty and his angry companions. He tried to kindle that second part and smother the first. He laid his hands against Ivy's warm neck, willing her strength into himself.

Mr. Chamberlain barked out a laugh. “Your little girl? You mean Francesca? Friend, if you think anyone will believe she's your kin, you're mad as a hatter.”

Fogarty spat at Mr. Chamberlain's feet. “I mean your ‘Irish songbird.' You got her all tricked out like a lad, but I know me own girl. I know her voice.”

Now. Speak now, lad. There's no one else who can do it
, said the voice in Daniel's head—Da's voice, and Ma's with it. Echoing them were young Ethan, Mr. Stocking and Mr. Sharp, Francesca and her brothers, even Mr. Chamberlain—all those who'd taught him courage and confidence. He was glad that Mr. Stocking had made him practice his Gaelic with Billy. The railroad men wouldn't listen to a Yankee, but they might heed an Irishman like themselves. He drew in a deep breath. “What would be your proof, sir?” he shouted in Gaelic. The Irish words startled them, as he'd hoped they would.

“Proof? You have my word,” Fogarty responded, likewise in Irish.

Daniel cast a sideways glance toward Mr. Stocking, who moved his lips as if struggling to translate the conversation. Mr. Chamberlain had disappeared. The peddler nodded to Daniel to keep going. “And what if I gave you my word that I'm Billy's brother?” Daniel asked.

“Then you'd be lying.” Fogarty's companions nodded, but not as strongly as they had before. Some of them gave Daniel studious looks, as if trying to find a resemblance between himself and the Irish singer they'd seen earlier in the day.

“Would I?” Daniel took a reckless chance. “Sir,” he said,
addressing the man nearest Fogarty, “would you know this gentleman's daughter, were you to see her?”

“Well, no . . . ,” the man replied. The others around him shook their heads in agreement. “Only heard Hugh tell about her.” He recovered himself quickly, though. “But his word is good enough for me.”

“When was the last you saw her?” Daniel asked Fogarty.

“It was six months ago that peddler stole her.”

“You saw him do it, then?” Daniel said, hoping he could trick Fogarty into confessing how he'd sold off his child. He nudged Ivy forward to shield Mr. Stocking from the railroad men. But the bloody foolish man stepped forward with him, reaching one hand up to give Daniel's ankle what was probably meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Daniel would have felt more reassured if the little man had retreated to the safety of the wagons and their burly teamsters.

“I saw him take her—” Fogarty began, but he slammed his mouth shut before he could fall into Daniel's trap. “I mean, when I saw her with him, I figured it was him that took her.”

Even though Fogarty had caught himself, Daniel saw raised eyebrows and sidelong glances as seeds of doubt planted themselves in the other men's minds. He continued in his most mannerly tones, “Billy maybe looks a bit like your girl, and your fancy's turned them one and the same.”

Some of Fogarty's companions backed away from him, nodding sympathetically. Daniel concentrated on the group in front of him, trying to block out the sounds behind him of wagons creaking, animals stirring uneasily, show folk talking together and, he hoped, readying themselves to flee, should he fail to diffuse the railroad men's anger.

“Are you saying I don't know my own flesh and blood?” Fogarty raged. “You're making a pretty little fortune out of my sorrows, with her singing like a trained canary, and me not having a penny of her wages!”

“So there's the truth of it,” Daniel said, turning his voice
sharp. “You said to yourself, ‘I'll pretend to be that child's da, and then I'll have someone to earn my livelihood for me.' ” To Daniel's satisfaction, a few of Fogarty's companions began looking narrowly at the man.

“If I'm not her da, how would I know she's a lass?” Fogarty insisted. The narrow looks turned back toward Daniel. “It's simple enough to prove. Give her to me and I'll show you.”

“Would you give your very own brother to a pack of rough men to strip the clothes off his back and do God knows what else?” Daniel shouted indignantly.

A coarse bellow broke the night air; Billy had steered Lorenzo to the front of the caravan. Lorenzo bellowed again and opened his mouth wide, exposing huge brown teeth. Some of the railroad men backed up, but Fogarty stepped forward. “Nuala, lass, tell them I'm your da,” he said, his voice soft and wheedling.

Billy stared coldly down at him. “Me name's Billy,” she said in English. “Billy McBride. I don't know who you are.” The camel let out a sound that was part roar, part belch.

“For pity's sake, Nuala, you're all I've left in the world,” Fogarty pleaded, with what sounded like true anguish, even to Daniel's skeptical ears. “I swear it'll be different this time. I'll make it all up to you.” His voice broke with a wrenching gasp that clutched at Daniel's heart and made him doubt himself for a moment.

Billy shook her head fiercely. “He's not my true da,” she said in Irish.

“You've made a mistake, sir,” Daniel said, pushing his doubts aside. “Let us be on our way and no harm done, eh?”

A few of Fogarty's companions nodded sympathetically and seemed poised to drift away from the group. A few others remained stolidly by him, their scowling mouths hard and determined. A goodly number, though, seemed caught in a muddle, their brows knotted in confusion as they tried to sort truth from lies.

Fogarty grasped at the sleeves of a couple men who were edging away. “That peddler and that magician have poisoned her mind against me. You've seen how these show folk trick people and muddle their thoughts.”

“Hugh's right,” said the man who'd stepped out first with Billy's da. “You know how these Yankees turn our children against their families, their homeland, their faith. They've turned her so she doesn't even know her own da. And they've turned this boy's head the same way, so he'll stand against his very own people.”

“It's not my head that's been turned,” Daniel said.

“If they won't give my girl up, then by God I'll take her!” Fogarty shouted.

The railroad workers roared their consent and surged forward.